Sometimes, while rereading old entries, I encounter an image that became (part of) a poem. I’d like to archive those examples here.
1
With all the snow on the ground and in the trees, I suddenly remembered cross country skiing with my mom up in the upper peninsula of Michigan–in Houghton–on these amazing groomed trails a mile from her house. I always loved going there with her, when she was in her late 50s and I was in my mid 20s. So much snow everywhere. And so many beautiful trees–aspens (I think) and firs. There was one stretch that I especially liked where you skied through a forest. I called it the cathedral of trees. Today I didn’t run through a forest, but I felt that same sort of delight and reverence as I ran by the welcoming oaks, their branches loaded with snow. What a wonderful gift to be able to conjure up that memory and think about a time before my mom was sick.
11 feb 1019
poem: Through the Welcoming Oaks
1. Through the Welcoming Oaks
Red oaks line the path. Some stand at attention, others at ease. Each seems to greet in its own way. “Good morning.” “Hello friend.” “Be careful.” I listen and they are grateful, offering gifts—shade, a pale golden light warming the sky, a serenade of acorn shells crunching underfoot. Once something more. A memory. Thick fresh slabs of frozen white caught in oaks’ crooks take me back. Mom and I in a forest up north, skiing under a stand of bushy balsam firs heavy with snow. We glow flushed with effort, burning bright with health. We laugh in delight at the trees looking like a scene from Currier & Ives. We do not yet know she is dying.
Red oaks painted white
cast out the ghost of cancer
and return us home.
2
Speaking of not seeing faces, this morning my daughter was talking to me. I was sitting at my desk, she was on the couch, in the shadows. Looking at her for several minutes as she told me about her homework, I couldn’t see her facial features at all. Her head was a shadowy blob with hair. I could, however, see her hand gestures. Her small, graceful hands waved and pointed and flexed and reached out as she discussed her assignment. I did not need to see her face or her eyes to understand her.
log entry on 9 april 2020
poem: Down 112 Steps, Scrawl Place